


Your Silence is my Favorite Sound

by day_eight



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/day_eight/pseuds/day_eight
Summary: Post-Fall/Season 3, completely self-indulgent fic.Golden sunlight filtering through ancient glass. Bloodstains on white marble. Silk ties and surgical steel. Exquisite, elegant horror.





	1. Chapter 1

\---

He’s falling,

falling, 

and yet it somehow feels as if he should be soaring,

as if Hannibal’s grip on his shoulders

could rend

and rip

his mortal flesh

to reveal the

wings

( _feathered, black_ )

beneath.

The last thing he registers,

right before he closes his eyes,

is the sound of the wind

and the smell of salt

and the feel

of Hannibal

clutching him tight.

He feels as grounded as an anchor.

He falls.

\---

Consciousness returns slowly, in fleeting, shimmery moments that flicker behind his eyelids.  
\---

He feels as if he’s still suspended, in mid air. 

\---

 _Expectant_. 

\---

But if he’s honest with himself, and at this point he’s too far gone ( _shattered, broken_ ) to be anything _but_ honest, he has to admit that he’s been feeling this way for quite some time.

\---

Since Hannibal. 

\---

 _Before you, and after you_ , he had said. 

And he had meant it. 

\---

Before Hannibal, Will’s life had been still and stagnant. A calm, albeit murky pond, set in a quiet corner, within and yet somehow separate from the rest of the world. The pond had been deep, its waters dark, and Things had teemed far below its glassy surface. It hadn’t been a _safe_ place, and certainly not boring. But there had been no currents, no change, no adventure beyond its own pet horrors. 

After Hannibal, Will’s life had become a river. Wild and untamable, with Anything around every corner. And suddenly all the monsters that had lurked within the dark recesses of his quiet pond had been set free, to rage along and against and with the current, meeting and fighting and competing with others along the way. The waters were still deep and utterly dark, but now they _moved_ , coursing along with fervor to some unseen destination.

It’s that perpetual _forward_ movement that haunts him now, the inescapable feeling that he is, that he should be headed _toward_ something. Toward an ending. Toward a beginning. 

_Toward Hannibal_.

Or, better yet, toward something ( _ending, beginning_ ) with Hannibal. 

\---

Bound together, wrapped in darkness, soaring toward the water below…

\---

He opens his eyes.

The first thing he notices is _absence_. The utter _not-there-ness_ of Hannibal, of Hannibal’s arms around him, and what he registers before anything else is how his current situation is infinitely less acceptable than the last thing he remembers. 

He closes his eyes and sees the waves rising up to catch him. He opens them again.

A glance around the room reveals a dozen or so different details that all scream Nondescript Hospital Room. The heart rate monitor says his pulse is 128 and he, almost subconsciously, takes a deep breath and watches until the numbers tick down to 103. There’s a ventilator pushed into the corner behind his bed. It isn’t in use, but the rawness in his throat suggests that it had been and is being kept close as a precaution. There’s an IV hooked to his wrist and more thin tubing that drapes across the bed before it dips under the covers. Will winces at the indignity of having a catheter administered ( _installed, implanted_ ) while unconscious. 

The room is empty ( _lacking, devoid_ ) of anything personal, save for a single bouquet of flowers tucked into the corner of the windowsill. An artful selection of seasonal flowers, tastefully arranged in an elegant vase. The bright fuschias and oranges are too cheerful for Hannibal’s taste. Alana, perhaps. 

(A part of him still screams _Abigail_ , until he squeezes his eyes shut and sends _that_ particular demon away to deal with another time.)

 _Before you, and after you_.

He wonders if perhaps it’s actually before Hannibal, during Hannibal, and _now_ , finally… after Hannibal. He wonders if there even _can_ be an after, if it’s at all possible to relinquish Hannibal to the clutches of the past. 

He closes his eyes.

\---

The room smells like crappy coffee and exhaustion. A baseball game is being played at a low volume from somewhere near the window. 

Will opens his eyes, blinks, and is met with Jack’s doleful stare.

“We found you at the safe house. It was pretty obvious what happened,” Jacks says. He leans forward in his seat near the bed and rests his elbows on his knees. His hands hang in the space in front of him, palms up, and he looks up at Will ( _waiting, expectant_ ) with a valiant attempt at patience stamped into his features.

Will chuckles, which hurts, and then he coughs, which hurts even more. Jack has the decency to arrange his face into something resembling apologetic.

The thing with Jack is that he’s relentlessly driven. But he’s also a pretty decent guy. So while he knows he shouldn’t shout questions at a barely conscious and very beat up ( _broken, shattered_ ) Will, nothing can quite drown out the part of him that wants, _needs_ answers. That need is so strong, so loud, that he doesn’t even ask the questions - they simply radiate from him, leaking through the layers of his clothing to stain the air with urgency. 

_Where is Hannibal Lector, Will?_

\---

Will starts, jolting alert with the odd feeling of having just woken up from a nap. He clears his throat, ducking his head as he peers around the room. Jack is still staring at him, and the baseball game still plays on quietly in the corner of the room. But Will can’t shake the familiar feeling of having _lost time_ , as if another thread of his sanity suddenly popped loose under the strain of … 

“What?” he asks, and he can’t help the slight shock at hearing his own voice, hoarse and raspy from an undetermined amount of time spent with plastic tubing down his throat.

“I said it was pretty obvious what happened,” Jack repeats, settling back in the chair and into his Official Expression of Observation. He studies Will as Will studies the fabric of the blanket draped across his legs.

Will sighs then, already knowing this game and its many rules and steps and procedures. He can see the next four years lined out in front of him, as clearly as the weaving in his starchy hospital blanket. He’ll tell Jack that he can’t remember anything--and while that might be true, it will mean something else entirely to Jack than it means to him. They’ll look for Hannibal, chase him across the globe ( _Paris, perhaps? Or Florence?_ ), and it will all end ( _begin_ ) in yet another bloodbath when Will, yet again, fails to make up his mind in time.

Something flickers to life in the corner of his mind. The outline of a thought, a memory. Moonlight and the relentless crash of water against stone. 

_”Decide, Will.”_

It’s gone before he can fully grasp it, caught in the ebb and flow of his unstable consciousness, swept back into the darkness from whence it came. Will feels shaken.

“I can’t help you, Jack,” he finally says. The words hang in the air between them, poignant with meaning. 

“The doctor said you might not remember everything right away. If you--” Jack’s words rush forward, reaching for Will, attempting to tether him to the hunt, the chase, the obsession.

“No, Jack. I can’t help you. Not this time.” Will looks up, sees confusion and alarm ( _betrayal? understanding?_ ) etched into Jack’s expression. He sees himself through Jack’s eyes--a subordinate, a student, a peer, a friend. Family. It’s as heartwarming as it is panic inducing, and Will feels a stab of… something at the thought of _belonging_ here. With Jack. With Alana. With his classroom and his students. With his house in Wolf Trap and his dogs. It’s a life that is remarkably _his_ , and yet it’s not the life he wants. He looks in Jack’s face again and this time he sees an ending ( _beginning_ ) written there.

“I can’t help you any more,” he says.

And he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is self-indulgence at its most extreme, folks. The Will and Hannibal (and any other subsequent characters) within this story might not perfectly match the characters from the show, but I've written them the way that they are to _me_. The thing I love about fanworks is how one thing can mean so much to so many different people. So that is why I chose to post this story - because the characters that live in my head might be close to the ones that live in yours. This story might be the story you've been wanting to read, or it might inspire you to write the one that you've been wanting to write all along.
> 
> Title taken from You Should See Me in a Crown by Billie Eilish.


	2. Chapter 2

Will stays in the hospital for nearly five weeks. He should, he supposes, feel lucky to be alive. Three broken ribs, a punctured lung, a sprained knee, multiple contusions, and two stab wounds from a three inch blade. The wound beneath his collarbone is simple, so to speak, and merely requires stitches and stillness. The one on his face is an ugly, vicious thing that seems to have a life of its own. It throbs in time with Will’s heartbeat, burning and freezing in waves of agony that radiate through his entire body. It’s what he imagines Biblical Hell would be like. Searing, white hot anguish. He can feel the Dragon’s talon pierce his skin, drag through flesh and bone, rip a hole straight through the fabric of reality. Blinding pain. Cleansing pain. 

He remembers.

\---

Moonlight, and the smell of blood. Everywhere and everything is blood. Blood on his hands, on his chest, gushing from his face, dripping into his eyes. Dripping from Hannibal. Hannibal’s blood. Will’s blood. Their blood. 

_All I ever wanted for you._

The pain is nauseating. He feels as if he’s going to burst apart with it, tear apart at the seams with the intensity of it, this feeling of too much, can’t… _can’t._

“Decide.”

Moonlight, and the taste of blood, of tears ( _his own_ ), of salt, of betrayal. He’s not sure who he’s betrayed this time, but he feels guilty all the same. It gnaws at him, the guilt and the _pain_ , and he slips, just a little….

“Will.”

Moonlight, and the soft-hard lines of Hannibal’s face, outlined in a silver glow. Blood as black as night, clinging and already starting to dry. Will looks up, fighting to retain consciousness, but the guilt and the pain are heavy and persuasive. 

“Your fate is your own, Will. Decide.”

\---

He knows, intrinsically, that there is no life _apart_ from Hannibal. Will knows this the way he knows his own name. No matter the state of his sanity ( _or lack thereof_ ), Will has never once wavered in that. He has always known who he is. He has always known who Hannibal is. And he has always known that their paths would end together.

It’s the _nature_ of that ending that Will can’t even begin to fathom.

\---

Option A. Arrest Hannibal. 

Been there, done that, still have the ( _mental, physical, emotional_ ) scars. Horrible plan.

Option B. Kill Hannibal.

Will has fantasized about killing Hannibal more times than he can count. But he’s not entirely sure if those fantasies are based in actual desire or a…. more convoluted obsession. It’s not the thought of killing Hannibal that brings Will pleasure, after all. It’s…. something else entirely. He feels a little unstable whenever he thinks about it. It terrifies him.

Besides, he’s not even sure he’d _survive_ killing Hannibal. He guesses that’s why he’d thrown them both into the sea. He tells himself that he’d never expected either of them to survive, that he’d been pushing them both to their deaths. But then his self tells him that he must have known all along, he _must_ have, and the dramatic seaside scene was merely a way to facilitate Hannibal’s escape.

He isn’t sure which is the truth any more. Perhaps he never truly did.

Option C. ( _Try to_ ) Forget Hannibal.

The smart, responsible solution would be to cut ties with Hannibal and move on. Except… it’s not easy to cut ties when you aren’t fully aware of where they are, or how deeply they’ve pierced your skin. He can no longer see where he ends and Hannibal begins. Everything is picture of a painting he once saw in Hannibal’s mind. There’s no forgetting Hannibal Lector. There’s no moving on. Not for anyone, and especially not for him.

 

Option D. Join Hannibal.

He’s given this option the most thought because it seems the most reasonable. He doesn’t _want_ Hannibal in prison, he doesn’t _want_ Hannibal dead, he doesn’t want to live without Hannibal. The only option left is to… _be with_ Hannibal. But there’s so much within those tiny words, _be with_ , that Will can’t even meet them head on. He comes at them from the side, picturing tiny glimpses, slivers of what a life with Hannibal might be like. 

Golden sunlight filtering through ancient glass. Bloodstains on white marble. Silk ties and surgical steel. Exquisite, elegant horror.

And he _wants_ , god, he _wants, he wants, he wants_. It’s so close he can _taste_ it, a faint tease of copper on the tip of his tongue. But he knows what lies down that road, knows the madness and the blood and the death and…. and…. And he would lose himself, wouldn’t he? Because despite his own darkness and his love for darkness, Will has never truly considered himself a monster. He doesn’t kill for pleasure, not _quite_ , and even though he can picture himself doing so with startling ease and clarity, he knows such wanton violence would signify a rending, a fracturing of his psyche too deep and too vast to ever mend. Will’s not a monster, but he _could be_ , he almost _wants_ to be, but he can’t… quite bring himself to take that particular leap.

It comes as a bit of a surprise, this unwavering sense of right of wrong. His morality has always been a bit… skewed, but apparently it still exists. He’s drawn a line for himself. On one side, the forbidden side, lies violent abandon. A life of teeth and blood and masks. On the other side lies… literally everything else. 

Which brings him back to the question ( _Decide, Will_ ) of what it is, exactly, that he wants.

He wants a life with Hannibal. With _Hannibal_ and all the things that Hannibal is, that Hannibal entails. He wants the violence and the quiet horror and he wants the feeling ( _righteous, glorious_ ) of blood on his hands. He _wants_ , but not at the expense of his own humanity. He knows that most people would consider him a monster, but when Will looks in the mirror he still sees a human being. He’s not sure he can stomach seeing anything else. 

He could ask Hannibal to change. Tell him to change. Beg… he could beg ( _he wants you to say please_ ). And Hannibal might listen, but terms and conditions make poor foundations for relationships. He’d never ask Hannibal to change, and Hannibal would never ask him. They are two constants, the only thing more constant than their sense of self is their knowledge of each other. 

_Can’t live with him, can’t live without him._

And she had been right. Damn her, but Bedelia had been right. Will and Hannibal are caught ( _ensnared_ ) in this impossible dance around each other--drawn irresistibly toward each other, yet forever destined to be in opposition. Will searches his feelings and finds himself reminded of lightning, of magnetic fields, the orbits of planets, galaxies, of forces that span the entire universe. It feels too big, too much for anything to withstand it. It’s no wonder that every future he envisions ends in fire and blood.

\---

Jack comes to visit again before the end of Will’s first week in the hospital. Fatigue and righteous anger follow in his wake, yapping at his heels like tiny parasites. He’s wearing his You Know I’m Right expression and displays his extreme disappointment in Will by forcefully not mentioning it at all. He explains that the FBI is paying to fix Will’s face, something Will isn’t even sure they’re allowed to do, and makes several assurances that Will will be _right-as-rain_ afterward. Will wonders how rain became the definition of right, but he nods anyways, signs the paperwork and consents to two separate surgeries, spaced two weeks apart. He asks if he’ll be allowed to go home in between the operations, but Jack informs him that the doctors will want to keep him there for observation. Will nods again, even though he can see this is merely Jack’s way of keeping him as close as he can, for as long as he can. For observation. 

A part of Jack has always been suspicious of Will, particularly when it involves Hannibal. Jack can’t base anything on fact, it’s just a _gut feeling_ , and gut feelings don’t solve cases. But still, it’s there, and it makes him cautious.

Jack still thinks Hannibal will come for Will. 

A crevice, vast and empty, opens up in the center of Will, because Hannibal won’t.

\---

Molly visits the day after Will’s first surgery. Will is antsy, impatient to get out of the hospital, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he sees her. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. She pulls a chair close to the bed, sits down and leans over, strokes one finger across the bandage on Will’s face. 

“You said you wouldn’t be the same,” she says. It’s not the first time she’s said it, but it feels different this time. It feels like goodbye.

Will knew. Of course he knew. When Molly didn’t visit for the first few days, and then the first week, Will knew. But he didn’t actually think about it, not really, and the realisation sparks a pang of guilt in his chest. He should feel… more. Grief, anger, hurt. Something. He should feel a lot more of something. He fought so hard to have that life, keep that life. It had all seemed so important.

“You know, I feel like I should feel worse about it,” Molly says. She gives him a small smile and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Will’s fingers itch with the memory of doing the same thing, of silken strands against his fingertips, the softness of her cheek. “I mean, I feel horrible about it, of course,” she continues. “About your injuries, about Walt, about all of it. But…” She trails off, twists her wedding ring around her finger. “I thought that I would feel worse about this.”

Will’s sigh is part sadness, part relief, and part amusement. It’s such a Molly thing to do, to see exactly what Will is thinking, what he’s struggling with, and take it on as her own. It’s her way of showing him that everything is okay. She always had a way of putting him at ease, of making him feel safe. He craves that safety now, so badly, and all he wants to do is bury his face ( _scarred, changed_ ) in her lap. Sweet, pure Molly. She doesn’t just accept the skeletons in Will’s closet, she puts them in top hats and uses them as Halloween decorations. 

“We had a good run, didn’t we?” she says, reaching out to take one of his hands in both of hers. The space in between them vibrates with memory. Flickering firelight, the sound of paws on hardwood floors, Walter shouting _yahtzee!_ “No regrets?”

“No regrets,” Will agrees, and squeezes her hands. They talk a little more, about Will’s surgeries, about crappy hospital food, about the weather. Will’s head is throbbing by the end of it, close to another scheduled dose of painkillers. They talk about the divorce, briefly, and agree to the simplest and most amicable of arrangements.

“Friends?” she asks him. 

Will has a vision of getting coffee with Molly, some years into the future. He pictures kissing her cheek, drinking espressos and eating muffins, listening to her talk about her new life. It will never happen, but it’s a nice image, nonetheless. “Friends,” he agrees.

There’s the briefest of moments, right before she leaves. She stops, her hand already reaching for the door, and looks back at him. Something in the air shifts. Will looks in her eyes and sees the question that she can’t bring herself to ask. 

_Will you go after him?_

He gives her a sad smile. 

\---

Jack comes by a few more times. He only broaches the topic of Hannibal once. It’s when Will’s drugged up after his second surgery, which is pretty sneaky and more than just a little rude, all things considered. Perhaps Chilton’s been giving lectures on interrogation tactics. Will pictures a blackened, lipless Chilton yammering away at a hall full of horrified cadets. He chuckles, and only feels the tiniest bit guilty about it.

“Will.” Jack’s standing at the end of the bed, hands firmly clasped behind his back. He’s wearing his Serious Fucking Business expression and waiting… waiting for Will to answer… something.

“I can’t help you, Jack,” Will tries. His voice sounds far away. He just wants to be left alone with his face and his drugs and his thoughts and his demons. “Can’t help you, Jack,” he repeats. He draws the words out. “Cant. Help. With. Jack.” He grins, lopsided and loopy. 

Jack fixes him with the full brunt of his Disappointment.

Will stares at the wall behind Jack’s head.

Neither of them speak for a very long time.

Will knows what Jack is doing, knows that Jack is letting the prospect of conversation rattle around Will’s head, until Will starts to talk to himself, silently at first, going around and around with his own conscience until the words finally end up spilling out into the room. He just… can’t make Jack understand. Will won’t survive another game of cat and mouse with Hannibal. His entire body seems to radiate with the knowledge of his wounds, as if crying out for him to see ( _See?_ ) the price of playing this game, the evidence of Hannibal’s attention ( _affection_ ) written out in scar tissue across his body. He’s not afraid to die, but he knows Hannibal doesn’t merely want to kill him. Perhaps kill off parts of him, until all that remains is something broken and twisted ( _beautiful_ ) that is Hannibal’s alone. Jack doesn’t… Jack _can’t_ understand, because Jack sees the world in black and white, good and evil. Hannibal exists in a world without light, and without light there can be no color, no black or white, only darkness. Jack sees Hannibal as a bad person, but Hannibal has never actually _been_ a person. 

He tells Jack as much, or at least he must, because Jack shakes his head and says, “That’s why we have to _catch_ him, Will.”

“Good luck with that,” Will says. He’s not sure if he really means it. He doesn’t actually wish Jack any harm. But he doesn’t want Jack to catch Hannibal, either. 

Jack unfolds his arms and takes a step toward the head of the bed. _Getting ready to pull out the big guns._ Will fights back another chuckle. 

“When the next victim dies--,” Jack begins, and Will can’t quite control the weary sigh that escapes him. Will has so much guilt that the prospect of more doesn’t seem the least bit daunting. 

“I’m sure you’ll be right there to remind me it’s all my fault,” Will says. He gives a little shrug, just to show Jack how over it he really is. Jack deflates, just a little, and Will gives him a small smile as consolation. “I’m sorry,” he offers. An olive branch. It’s even almost truthful. “I wish it was… different.”

Jack slumps and awkwardly pats Will’s shin. Will wonders if it should be so easy to part ways with someone you would have died for. Killed for. Someone who would have died or killed for you.

( _“Friends?” asks Molly. “Friends,” Will replies._ )

“Me too,” Jack says. 

\---

Alana doesn’t visit. Smart girl. Will feels a swell of pride at the end of every day that Alana doesn’t visit. He hopes she stays alive--for a while, at least. He knows Hannibal will eventually keep his promise, but still… he hopes Hannibal gives her years. Decades. Time to watch her son grow. Time to be happy. 

\---

It’s been four weeks and five days, and Will is finally leaving the hospital. He stops saying _going home_ because he realises, perhaps belatedly, that he is essentially homeless. He calls Brauner, who somehow never stopped being Will’s lawyer after the trial. 

“Graham! Just the man I wanted to talk to. Listen, something weird happened while--”

Will shifts the phone to his other ear as a nurse walks into the room. She puts his discharge papers on the tray beside his bed, holds out a pen expectantly. “Listen, I can’t really talk now,” Will says, taking the pen from the nurse. She stares at him. “Got some… stuff… busy.” He starts rapidly filling out the paperwork. Yes, he has listened to the aftercare procedures. No, he does not want to be reminded about upcoming appointments via text message. “Listen, I just want to know if I still have access to my bank account, and if I have enough money to cover a few nights in a hotel.”

Brauner, who has always shown a surprising knack for being able to stay on the right side of conversation, only pauses for a moment. “Yeah, man,” he says, “That won’t be a problem at all.”

Will hangs up without responding.

\---

He gets a taxi from the hospital to a small hotel a few miles away. Checks in, inspects the room ( _no monsters except for the ones in his head_ ), takes a shower, and orders way too much Chinese food. 

He watches nature documentaries and eats lo mein.

\---

Brauner shows up two days later, right as Will decides to fish the last of the leftovers out the mini fridge. The knock at the door startles him. He pads over to it in bare feet, chopsticks still clutched in one hand.

The expression on Brauner’s face suggests that he’d knocked on the door with absolutely no idea what might be on the other side of it. He looks Will up and down, takes in the unkempt hair, the dirty bandages, and the distinct lack of trousers. He shrugs, as if this isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. 

Will supposes he agrees. He shuffles sideways as Brauner steps inside.

“So,” Brauner says. He walks over to the small table and sets his briefcase on it, fingers already busy with the latches. “As I mentioned when we spoke on the phone, something weird happened while you were in the hospital.” He rifles through a couple folders and pulls out a stack of paperwork.

“Weird,” Will echoes. Weird like… running into a long forgotten acquaintance? Or weird like coughing up a human ear? Weird can mean a plethora of different things.

“Apparently you had a long lost great uncle in Europe,” Brauner continues, oblivious to Will’s discomfort. “A very old, very wealthy great uncle.”

Will’s brain stutters, starts, stutters again. “Are you sure he wasn’t a Nigerian prince?” 

“I know, I know.” Brauner keeps taking out paperwork, laying it out on the table. “It sounds like a scam, right? But there were actual birth and marriage certificates. All in order. A perfectly legitimate inheritance, at least on paper.” He taps a stack of paperwork, grinning. “For all intents and purposes.”

There’s only one place the money could come from. Anyone with half a mind could figure it out. Will looks at Brauner, who grins back at him like he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

Will signs the paperwork, and inherits a small fortune.

“Weird,” he says.

\---

In the end, it’s not so much a decision to leave as it is a decision to _not stay_. He wakes up one morning and realises that he doesn’t want to _be_ here. 

He thinks about going back to Florence. 

He thinks about Hannibal’s drawings of Paris.

But, in the end, he decides that he’d rather find a place not haunted by Hannibal’s ghost.

( _Or the man himself._ )

It’s an easy choice, all things considered. Hannibal has never mentioned England, and Will already speaks the language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at plot. My apologies.


End file.
